


Tread My Path for Me

by radculas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Depressed Sherlock, Drug Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Post TAB, Sherlock Whump, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radculas/pseuds/radculas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's mood swing takes a violent turn to the point he cannot function properly.<br/>Everyone around him must fight to keep Sherlock from veering from his path, but the consulting detective's complex psychological condition complicates things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“If I were to look back and pin down when I started to suspect Sherlock was ‘a bit not good’, it would ironically be when he started using smiley faces in his texts.

It felt forced and out of character, but I initially dismissed it as Sherlock growing tender. When we first met, he left an unpleasant first impression upon most people. He was intimidating, cold, and didn’t care to spend his energy on social graces. After coming back from the dead, however, Sherlock’s changed. He’s grown to the point where he makes sure not to be rude at least to the ones he feels close to.

Who would have known that a smiley face can be a telling sign?”

…

John received a text from Sherlock asking him to meet him at Bart’s one Sunday morning. Despite being an adrenaline junkie, John was hesitant to accept Sherlock’s invitation. With the baby on the way, he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Mary before they became busy with parenting.  
She insisted that John go. John hadn’t been seeing enough of his best friend lately. Mary probably thought she owed Sherlock a lot of favor after the incident at Appledore.

With a mixed feeling, John trotted out of his house and into his car.

Sherlock and Molly greeted him at the lab. It was in this same lab that they met for the first time. Compared to back then, they’ve all aged a bit. Sherlock was probably not keeping his eating habits in order after John moved out. Those cheekbones have never looked so prominent.

“John,” The consulting detective said in a low rumble without lifting his eyes from the microscope.

“Anything interesting going on?” John asked.

“Not really,” Sherlock admitted.

“Oh,” John cleared his throat and turned his attention to Molly. “And how are you doing, Molly?”

Before she could open her mouth to answer, Sherlock blurted,

“Still single, got a new cat though. At least Toby isn’t single.”

“Stop it Sherlock,” Molly said firmly but with a touch of good humor in her tone. Sherlock shrugged, let out a sigh and looked up at John. The doctor was slightly alarmed to see the detective’s eyes bloodshot and fatigued. 

“Struggling with a case?” John asked.

“On the contrary, I haven’t had a compelling case for weeks. I need a motivator.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile and showed the screen to John. It was a photo of a crime scene.

“What do you think? Mugging, a crime of passion, or accident? Go.” John felt like he was being tested. He frowned at Sherlock, then at Molly, who shrugged back. He stared at the photograph for a while. A man was lying face down on the alleyway.

“Mugging, I suppose?”

“Wrong,” Sherlock said bluntly. “Accident. He fell from the roof of the building standing on the east side of the alley. Probably not a suicide because it’s only two floors high. If you were to jump to your death, you’d choose a place with greater height.” John grimaced. He remembered when Sherlock faked his death at the very building they were standing in.

“He hit his head here,” Sherlock slid his thumb across the screen to swipe to the next photo which showed the fence of a balcony. There were a smudge and a small dent on the surface. “And here.” This time, it was the curb of the street with chalk marks drawn around it.

“What was he doing on the roof?” John asked.

“That is what I am looking into.” Sherlock tutted impatiently, pocketed the phone and turned back to the microscope. “Lestrade thinks it was just a drunk bloke.”

“But Sherlock reckons from the autopsy report that the man was not intoxicated enough to lose his footing.” Molly added.

“He was probably just chasing a cat. But I can’t rule out the possibility that it was something with criminal intent.”  Sherlock said.

“And what do you want me to do?” John asked. Sherlock lifted his face up with a confused look. John realized how ridiculous his question was. Sherlock never needed a reason for John to hang around with him. It was just the way it was.

“Motivate me.” Sherlock ordered and turned back to the microscope with a huff. John and Molly exchanged puzzled looks. If only they realized the true meaning of Sherlock’s request.

…

“Jesus, Sherlock, you gave me a fright. What are you doing up there?” Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade hollered up at the roof top of 221B Baker Street as he stood in front of the front door. Sherlock was standing two floors above him with his coat billowing in the autumn wind.

“Experimenting.” Sherlock said bluntly and paced at the edge of the roof like a stray cat.

“What for?” Greg frowned and threw his hands up. “Get back down before I call the fire department.” Sherlock mumbled something inaudible and the detective’s figure disappeared from Lestrade’s eyesight. After a few minutes of silence, the front door opened to reveal Sherlock Holmes himself standing in front of Lestrade with the coat still on and his hair slightly tousled from the wind. 

“Afternoon,” Sherlock greeted his colleague flatly. Greg blinked and stepped into the flat. “I think I solved the case of the falling man.”

“Oh did you now?” Greg said in a slightly harsh tone, still unnerved by Sherlock’s stunt. “How did you even get up there?” Sherlock ignored his question and led the detective inspector up the stairs.

…

It wasn’t until few weeks later when Sherlock and John met again. He received a text from Lestrade saying that he and Sherlock had just wrapped up another case and were having a pint at a nearby pub. John was surprised to hear that Sherlock was socializing with someone other than himself. Curious to witness the peculiar situation, John and Mary decided to accept Lestrade’s invitation.

By the time the couple arrived, the pub was already buzzing with people and it took a while for John to spot the gray haired detective inspector drinking a pint of lager at the counter. He couldn’t see Sherlock anywhere. But he did notice a half empty glass of scotch propped next to Lestrade.

“John, Mary!” Lestrade smiled. “Good to see you.” It has been a while since the two met. After John moved out of Baker Street, it has become impossible to see Lestrade on a casual basis.

“Sherlock will be back from the loo any time. Do you want to get something to drink and find a proper seat somewhere? What are you having, Mary? They have quite a bit of non-alcoholic drinks here.”

“Oh great!” Mary said in a chirpy tone and received the drink list from Lestrade. John ordered a pint of stout and was about to take a sip from it when he spotted Sherlock emerge from the toilet located at the other end of the pub. He approached his friends with a flash of a smile and a shy “hey” before he dropped his eye contact and reached for his glass.

Once they found a table at the quieter corner of the pub, John remarked,

“I was surprised to hear that you two were drinking out tonight.”

“It was Sherlock’s idea, actually.” Lestrade said.

John looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. On many occasions, Sherlock proposed a dinner or a drink to John but he always acknowledged it as a very exclusive gesture that Sherlock made only to his very closest friend. He never thought Sherlock would do the same with Lestrade. Despite the fact that the two had known each other longer than John, Lestrade has never been Sherlock’s first choice of one-on-one drink/dinner session. John had to admit he felt a pang of jealousy.

“Well,” Sherlock murmured, “It was a big case.” John expected Sherlock to initiate an extravagant story telling of the whole case, but the detective merely drew the whiskey glass up to his mouth and took a sip.

“So,” Lestrade turned to John and smiled. “How is the baby’s room coming along?”

“We finished painting the room,” John informed and wrapped a loving arm around Mary’s waist. “But there is still more things to move around.” The next hour passed by with updating each other on their private lives while Sherlock went over to the counter and bought himself another glass of scotch.

Sherlock was unusually quiet that night. John’s never seen him this calm after a case. He is usually endorsed in a post-case euphoria. John wondered if the detective was tired. He did look a little worn out. Perhaps he felt a little uneasy for not seeing John and Mary for such a long time and didn’t know what to do. The nature of their friendship seemed to have shifted after John’s marriage. Even more so after Magnussen’s death. But then again, this is what happens to friendships all the time. Once you reach a certain point, you feel comfortable without contacting each other for a long span of time. You will still feel that friend’s presence, and although you feel a bit sad, you move on with your life. He was glad that Sherlock’s found a way to deal with their distanced friendship. It seemed like Lestrade was keeping good company.

Sherlock excused himself earlier saying that he had an appointment with a client early next morning. It was only then that Lestrade leaned over the table with a serious expression.

“He’s not doing so great lately. Do you think it has anything to do with Moriarty?” John and Mary looked at each other.

“I have no idea, Greg. But I can tell that he was rather quiet tonight.”

“He seems busy with something. He doesn’t react to my text as quickly as he used to or intrude my investigations.”

John scratched his head.

“Maybe he’s doing extra work for Mycroft again?” He suggested. Sherlock was supposed to be sent on a mission before the re-emergence of Moriarty. Perhaps he was working on something in the home ground instead? That would explain the bloodshot eyes and the general lack of energy. The consulting detective was overworked.

That night, Mary suggested John to visit Baker Street more often.

…

Sherlock had different kind of smiles. Often, you’d see the polite, forced ones, some were condescending smirks, a subtle curve of his lips, in times, a wonky, scrunched up grin and if you were lucky like John, maybe even witness his boyish baritone giggle or even a burst of laughter.

However recently, apart from the smiley faces on the text, no one witnessed a proper smile from Sherlock.

_Will you be in tonight? Take away, together at your place? -JW_

_Sure :) –SH_

That is how it went.

John pressed the buzzer of 221B Baker Street a week later with a bag of Indian takeaway in his hand. Mrs. Hudson greeted him with a hug.

“Oh John, if I had known you were coming, I would have fixed something up!” She exclaimed.

“It’s alright Mrs. Hudson. Maybe next time.”

“He’d be delighted to see you. I haven’t seen much of Sherlock recently myself you know. I make him a cuppa every morning, but most of the time, it’s untouched.” She says with a disappointed shake of a head. John frowned. That was rather unusual even for Sherlock. He didn’t eat properly during cases but even then, he would consume a cup or two of tea.

John bound up the flight of stairs and knocked at the door of his former flat with a strange feeling. Hearing no reply, he opened it. Sherlock’s probably guessed that it was him from the sound of the footsteps. Something about the sole of the shoes, creaks on the floorboard, and the likes of that.

“Heard you’ve been busy lately,” He called out to find the consulting detective tapping away on his laptop.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied.

“What are you working on now?” John asked and fetched some plates and glasses from the kitchen. He was horrified to find the kitchen table and the sink immersed in a jumble of eating dishes and petri dishes. “Am I allowed to touch any of this?” he asked.

“Yes, go ahead.” Sherlock said without taking his eyes off the screen. John wondered what the consulting detective was working on this time as he washed some of the dirty dishes and glasses so that they could use it.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten anything?”

“Don’t remember.”

“I thought not.” The doctor muttered as he scrubbed hard at the crusty substance on the dishes. “Jesus, Sherlock, how do you live like this?”

There was no reply except for the tapping noise of the keyboard.

John placed a plate full of food next to Sherlock and sat down on his old armchair. He tucked into his dish without waiting for Sherlock. The detective will eat when he wants to. There is no point in waiting. He learned that ages ago. Sherlock was dressed in his usual sharp attire, but there was something about his posture that lacked his usual attentiveness.

“When did you last sleep properly?”

“Irrelevant.”

John sighed and ate in silence as he watched Sherlock work. It was a few minutes later when Sherlock’s hand suddenly came to a halt, and his eyes glanced down at the keyboard as if a robot had suddenly run out of energy. He sat there silently for several more minutes.

“Are you alright?” John asked nervously. Sherlock didn’t react immediately, but after a while, he drew in a breath and asked John without looking up.

 “I’m a little bit busy at the moment. I’m afraid I can’t entertain you.” He stated in a deadpan voice. John swallowed and frowned.

“Is there anything I could do to help?” He offered.

“No, thank you. I just need to be alone. Do you mind? When you finish eating, I mean…” Sherlock said and looked up at John with a soft expression, but there was no smile there.

 “No, it’s fine.” The doctor shrugged although he was shocked to be honest. Sherlock never dismissed him like this before. Ignored him, yes. Showed agitation, yes. Occasionally, demanded personal space to go to his mind palace, yes, but never had he kindly asked John to excuse himself just because he was busy. Sherlock loved bouncing ideas against John. Sherlock regarded John as “the conductor of light”. Sherlock’s dismissal felt like a rejection of their friendship. With a growing hole in his chest, the doctor ate the rest of the takeaway in silence as Sherlock typed away again.

After John awkwardly parted ways with Sherlock, the consulting detective closed his laptop with a large sigh and slumped over the table as if to hug the laptop. He tried to ease the heavy, sinking feeling of guilt, fatigue, and confusion. He did not know why he asked John to go away. He did not know why he couldn’t welcome his best friend warmly. He did not know why he felt so hollow and heavy at the same time. The floor was melting. His heart was beating fast, and he did not know whether to sigh or take a deep breath. He needed to get out of here.

…

The next day, Sherlock visited Mycroft’s office. He detested the gloomy office with its pompous desk and the overly comfortable chair, but he was desperate enough to approach his elder brother in person.

“I need to go to Eastern Europe.” Sherlock demanded.

“The answer is no, Sherlock. You have more utility here.” Mycroft said adamantly without taking his eyes off a file he was skimming through.

“You’re the one who wanted to send me out in the first place.” The younger Holmes spat.

“You’re the one who didn’t want to go in the first place.”

“Please, Mycroft.” Sherlock squeezed the words out. Mycroft shot his head up in surprise. “I need to get out of here. Please,” Sherlock repeated. His bloodshot eyes bore into Mycroft.

“Are you quite alright, Sherlock?” Mycroft frowned. “If you are using again-“

“I’m not.” Sherlock declared firmly.

“Is that an answer to my first question or the latter?” The elder Holmes said with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock’s expression darkened.

“Both.” The detective said. Realizing that his request was futile, Sherlock got up from his chair and exited the office before Mycroft could utter another word.

It was quite a coincidence when on the evening of the same day, Mycroft received a phone call from John Watson.

“Mycroft, this might be none of my business but you need to know that your brother is a human too. You can’t keep pushing him like that.”

“I beg your pardon?” It was one of the very few occasion in Mycroft’s life where he was genuinely confused.

“He’s not eating or drinking properly. He’s not sleeping well by the looks of it either.” The doctor said. “I know Moriarty’s a threat but you can’t-”

“On the contrary, John, I have not been assigning Sherlock any missions lately. _At all_. In fact, he came in earlier asking me to dispatch him to the field again. Quite desperately too.”

“What?” The doctor sounded bewildered.

“If you know what he’s up to, I would like you to tell me, John. I’m rather concerned about the well-being of my brother.”

“Aren’t we all?” John muttered on the other end of the line.

…

Sherlock took fewer and fewer cases from Lestrade and on the rare occasion that he did, Sherlock arrived on the scene with a significant lack of enthusiasm. He was still brilliant at what he did. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what was wrong with him. It felt like Sherlock was doing an impression of himself. He would occasionally act excited, but the light in his eyes were missing. He threw a couple of insults to Lestrade’s team but, the wit was not in it. It was as if Sherlock was trying to keep Lestrade from thinking that there was something wrong. But one day, Sherlock arrived at the crime scene 5 minutes late, and Lestrade sensed a definite heaviness to the air. The consulting detective entered the crime scene without a word, surveyed the area, calmly listed the possibilities to Lestrade and tried to part ways.

“Wait,” Lestrade said and grasped the Sherlock’s elbow. “You alright, mate?” Sherlock blinked a couple of times with a confused look on his face.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Just…want you to take care of yourself.” Sherlock plucked Lestrade’s hand from his elbow and sighed.

“I’m fine, Geoff.”

“Greg.”

“Greg.” Sherlock corrected himself and walked away.

As Sherlock parted ways with the detective inspector, he grasped his scarf and tried to ease the uncontrollable pounding in his chest. The moment he entered the crime scene, he just wanted to turn his back and go back to his flat. He’d like to believe that crime solving is the passion of his life, but the truth is, staying at home feels more appealing to him at the moment. The sinking feeling he gets when he is working is unbearable. He cannot help but notice Greg and his team’s eyes boring into the back of his head as he tried to come up with something clever. In the end, he always did but it seems like the task is getting harder recently. The pressure and the anticipation used to be exhilarating but nowadays, it felt like too much.

Sherlock dragged himself back to the flat and shrugged off his coat and scarf. He plopped it on John’s old armchair and collapsed onto the sofa. He stared up at the ceiling and wondered how long it would take for him to muster the energy to get off from the sofa again.

…

John tried his best to visit Baker Street at least once a week. Partly for Mrs. Hudson’s sake but mostly for Sherlock. Mary occasionally tagged along, but every time they saw the consulting detective, he looked even worse than before. Sometimes the consulting detective would greet them as if he had just woken up. Other times, he was asleep. John could swear that Sherlock had not touched a single thing in the flat since his last visit.  But Sherlock did not let anyone mention the elephant in the room. They ate and drank, but it was mostly Mary and John doing the talking and the eating. Sherlock just plucked at the food and listened quietly. Sometimes, Sherlock made the effort to initiate the conversation but he drifted away before John could finish his first sentence. He looked terribly bored and terribly tired. At least Sherlock didn’t send John home like the first time.

John brought a bottle of wine one time to share with Sherlock. It could have been because of the alcohol in the system. Before John left the front door of 221B that night, Sherlock bit his lower lip and placed a hand on John’s shoulder gently to halt him. John turned around with a mild look of surprise on his face. Sherlock lowered his hand and awkwardly leaned against the door frame.

“I just wanted to say, thank you.” Sherlock lifted his eyes to make eye contact with John’s. The look in the consulting detective’s eyes was unexplainable. It was a mixture of fatigue, sadness, genuine appreciation and a touch of embarrassment that reminded John of that day at the tarmac, when he thought he would never be able to see Sherlock again. John swallowed, unable to come up with the proper words to return. Instead, he smiled and said,

“See you next week, yeah?”

Sherlock’s lips had curved up very slight before he closed the door gently behind John. It was the closest thing John saw to a smile in a long time.

…

Molly stood next to Sherlock as the consulting detective examined the cadaver. He wasn’t allowed in here –as usual- but it has been so long since Sherlock visited Bart’s that Molly didn’t think twice about giving him access to the morgue.

“You’ve been taking some time off of homicide cases then?” Molly asked innocently. Sherlock did not answer immediately. He pulled out his magnifying glass from his chest pocket as Molly waited awkwardly, wondering if Sherlock even registered what she had just said. After a few minutes, he grunted to himself and straightened up.

“There aren’t any interesting cases lately.” He said with a sigh. “I thought this one might be but it’s rather straight forward.”

Molly blinked at Sherlock, mesmerized by his brilliance.

“You solved it already?”

“Pretty much.” He remarked as he pulled off the latex gloves. “I just need to run some experiments in the lab to confirm my hypothesis.” Sherlock walked out of the morgue, followed by Molly. She was about to offer her assistance for the experiments when Sherlock came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the corridor. Molly almost bumped into him. The detective stared out the glass window with a pensive look on his face.

“Molly,” he said without looking at her. “If I died, would you do an autopsy on me as well? Just like that?”

Feeling uncomfortable with the question, Molly hesitated to answer. Sherlock turned toward her, and the look on his face made Molly realize the terrible truth that whatever was churning in Sherlock’s mind was not good.

“You wouldn’t though, would you? Not for a while, I mean.” She asked back hesitantly. Sherlock turned his head back to the window. Autumn leaves fluttered down from several trees in the courtyard.

“Who knows?” He shrugged and resumed down the corridor again.

After the conversation, Molly did not dare leave Sherlock’s side for the rest of the day. Even after Sherlock finished his experiment and went home, Molly rang the consulting detective’s mobile just to be safe.

“What is it Molly?” He asked groggily.

 _I just wanted to see whether you were alright._ That was what Molly initially thought of saying, but she changed her mind.

“I found a glove in the lab. I was wondering if it was yours.” There was a brief pause as Sherlock wondered whether he had brought his gloves to Bart’s.

“I don’t think so.” He finally replied.

“Oh, okay. Well, see you later.” For some reason, Molly didn’t want to say _Good-bye_. She wanted reassurance that Sherlock will meet her again. Sometime soon. Sherlock terminated the line without a word.

…

Sherlock couldn’t remember when he last sat up properly to eat. He lost track of the time and date. After binge sleeping for 19 hours, his sleeping cycle was completely scrambled up. He woke up at odd hours of early evening or midnight, only to feel unproductive and exhausted. He stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes before closing his eyes again. Hunger was never a problem when he was in a self-induced coma. Before he knew it, five days has passed since his conversation with Molly.

He wondered what would be the best way to end his life so that Molly would not find his remains too revolting. Throwing himself in the Thames would not be a good idea. Everyone hated floaters. Even Sherlock did not like those bloated white-grey skin and that putrid, raw smell only floaters had. Jumping in front of the tube would be interesting. There’s something pleasing about pissing off a bunch of Londoners on the platform during the rush hour. Oh, they would hate him so much but it’s almost worth it if it weren’t for the thought of those poor souls that would be picking up his remains from the rail. Hanging is too straight forward, and he didn’t want to embarrass Molly with a post-mortem erection. Jumping; he’s already done that before- albeit it being faked. Overdosing would be the best. It would leave a nice puzzle for Molly too. She will have fun doing an autopsy on him and finding out what he had pumped into himself.

The only problem was, he couldn’t even get himself to stand up and collect the drugs from his flat. It took another two days before Sherlock could emerge from his bedroom.

Sherlock had completely forgotten that tonight was going to be John’s weekly visit night. Determined to execute his plans and deliver the final blow, Sherlock showered, shaved, and changed clothes for the first time in days. He groomed his hair and tidied up some parts of the room and the kitchen. He wondered whether he should leave a note or something, but he couldn’t be bothered to write anything. The suit and his groomed look will be enough to explain the situation. He grasped a bottle of paracetamol from the washroom cabinet and twisted open the lid. He peered in to check if there were enough tablets in there. Just when he was about to empty all of it onto his hand, he heard the buzzer ring. Shit, what a timing. If only the guest arrived a few hours later. There was no point in ignoring the door now. He placed the bottle down and stumbled out of the bathroom. John was standing on the landing with two bags full of groceries in his hands.

 

Sherlock was utterly taken by surprise and were lost for words. John seemed to be just as startled by the sudden emergence of his friend.

“John,” he croaked and tried to regain his composure but all of the sudden, a tremendous sense of shame dawned upon him.

“Well, you look sharp today.” John remarked. “Did something good happen or were you just dressing up for me?” he said teasingly and made his way into the flat. Sherlock stumbled back a bit.

“Not exactly.” He barely managed to reply. John set down the bags on the kitchen table with a heave.

“I thought we should cook today. Nothing like a bit of homemade food! We might as well make a week’s worth of food and freeze it. Makes life easier for you, won’t it?” The doctor said in a cheerful tone and started unloading the onions and the carrots from the bag. Sherlock just stood there with a numb feeling growing through his legs. He wanted to collapse there on the floor and sob till he died of dehydration. It took every single bit of his remaining strength to keep himself upright.

Sherlock edged towards the kitchen, seated himself in one of the chairs and watched John efficiently whip up a casserole. John didn’t seem to mind Sherlock not helping. What mattered the most was that Sherlock was there in the room, both physically and mentally.

After that night, Sherlock procrastinated and pushed off his plan further and further and further. He told himself he should do it tomorrow but when “tomorrow” arrived, he told himself the same thing. He was waiting for the right moment. The thought was constantly in his mind, but he had to find the right vibe for it to happen, or there was no point.

The vibe came suddenly and in the most unexpected moment.

…

Lestrade was excited when Sherlock finally answered one of his many texts and phone calls and decided to accept the murder case. When the consulting detective arrived at the scene, he looked as haggard as last time but at least he was in his more talkative mood. Perhaps Sherlock was also thrilled to see Lestrade. He kneeled down beside the corpse and gazed at it for a while.

“Give me anything you got, Sherlock.” The detective inspector urged. Sherlock took a breath and stood up. For a fraction of a second, the light seemed to return to the young man’s eyes.

“The victim knew the killer. From the way he wears his watch and the pinky ring, I can deduce that he’s from North London, and the same goes with the killer. I suggest you run through all hospice in that area for any leads.”

Sherlock explained all of this in one burst and took a deep breath as he finished. Greg almost wanted to clap. He’s never seen Sherlock speak so quickly in a long time. But before he could open his mouth to say anything, Sherlock pursed his lips and blinked rapidly. His breath was shallow too as if he was about to cry.

“You alright?” Greg asked with a frown and stepped toward Sherlock, but the consulting detective took a step away from him.

“I-I-um,” Sherlock gulped and tried to blink away the tears. “I need to go now.” He choked out the last words and burst out of the room. Alarm bells rang in Lestrade’s brain. This was no other than an anxiety attack.

“Sherlock,” He called after urgently and followed. Sherlock bolted down the spiral staircase of the old flat, not registering Lestrade’s calls. He pushed through several forensic officers who were standing at the entrance of the flat building. He burst out into the fresh cold air and pulled off his scarf. This was it; this was the time. The euphoric high from making a deduction, the presence of other people, the cold icy air, the heavy-ness in his limb and the dull headache at the base of his skull. Everything felt perfect, and he felt like this was his only chance to deliver the blow. There was no tomorrow. Tomorrow is not going to come. All there is, is “now” and he had to do something about it. He stumbled into the car park, crossed the space and made his way to the main road.

Lestrade sprinted after Sherlock, who was already a few meters away from the main road. At first, Lestrade thought Sherlock was merely evacuating to an open space, but as he witnessed the tall figure march blindly to the busy road, he realized what was happening.

“No, Sherlock,” he gasped as he saw Sherlock stumble onto the sidewalk. He was almost stepping over the curb. “SHERLOCK!” He bellowed as a car honked loudly and zoomed past. He yanked at Sherlock’s arm with all his might. The sudden tug spun the tall figure and collided right into Lestrade. The two fell to the ground. At least Sherlock did not collide with a vehicle. Greg could not pick himself up, panting hard and stunned by what had just happened. He wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock as if to make sure he did not escape his grip. Sherlock, on the other hand, tightened his grasp around his scarf but apart from that, he showed no sign of stirring.

“Goddam it, Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled with a half cracked voice. Sherlock still did not reply. He just kept his face buried in the ground. Lestrade wrestled him to sit upright. Sherlock stared back with an exhausted, empty look. Lestrade shook the young man’s shoulder and demanded some kind of reaction. Tears boiled up.

“Never do that again, you idiot!”

…

Things took a sharp turn after that. John received a frantic phone call from Lestrade explaining that they’ve put Sherlock under suicide watch. John slumped into his sofa, feeling devastated that his worst fear has come true and also feeling ashamed for not taking action at an earlier stage. Evil as it may sound, he was also a tad bit relieved to know that Sherlock had finally dropped so low to the point that no one could avoid the elephant in the room. He was also annoyed that Sherlock never thought of talking to anyone about this. Not even to his best friend.

“How long will it take to get a full diagnosis?” John asked.

“Mycroft reckons a couple of weeks until the whole assessment is done. Sherlock will have to be kept at the hospital for a month at the least. He said he’ll let us know as soon as it’s okay for Sherlock to see us. In the meantime, the psychiatrists also want to talk to us about Sherlock to get an accurate diagnosis.”

“More than happy to help.” John said firmly.

John wondered how long Sherlock had been suffering from this. He wondered if there was a particular event that could have triggered it. Hell, maybe it was because John wasn’t living with him anymore? Or Moriarty? Did killing Magnussen leave a stronger impact on Sherlock than anyone had imagined? Or was it the physical trauma of getting shot? Perhaps this was all the way back from when he was doing field work for MI6? Or nothing at all?

…

Sherlock relived the euphoria of that night every time in his sleep and sometimes, he even managed to dream up to the point where he was hit by a car. When his frame hit the car, he would burst into a million pieces like a brilliant firework. But when he opened his eyes, he was back in the hospital room where pain and gravity existed.

Sherlock can’t quite remember what happened after Lestrade’s intervention. He was mostly in a catatonic state, where everything was numb and dimmed down. He remember riding in the back of Lestrade’s car as his friend drove in silence. He was taken to an inspection room in a hospital where they took his blood pressure, blood sample and did basic physical checks on him. A doctor asked him whether he was aware of his surroundings to which Sherlock is pretty sure he answered, yes. They gave him transfusion to deal with his malnutrition but apart from that, they didn’t sedate him or give him any other medication. They didn’t need to. The moment Sherlock hit the hospital bed, he immediately slipped into sleep.

Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness for two days until Mycroft came to visit him in person. Sherlock merely stared out the window and refused to register Mycroft.

“Doctor Simmons would like to have a discussion with you, Sherlock. Your blood test result came back with no sign of substance abuse or hypothyroidism. You know what this might mean.”

Sherlock did not answer.

“I ask you to cooperate as much as possible with the assessment, brother mine.” Mycroft continued gently. Sherlock stiffened his shoulders at the last two words but didn’t have the energy to act upon it. He just grunted and waited until Mycroft left the room. Sherlock turned his head back up to the ceiling. After a while, a nurse knocked and entered. He politely asked how Sherlock was doing to which Sherlock blinked and grunted back effortlessly. He was asked to sit up slowly, then stand up, and follow him to the doctor’s office. Sherlock dragged the IV line with him as he slowly pattered down the corridor with the nurse.

He was led to a clinical looking meeting room with a couple of sofas and a coffee table. Doctor Simons turned to him and smiled politely.

“Mr. Holmes, I’m Dr. Simmons, your psychiatrist. Please sit down.”

“Sherlock, please.” He said in a half groan and flopped down on one of the sofas.

“Would you like anything to drink? Water?” Without waiting for Sherlock’s answer, the doctor placed a plastic cup full of water in front of Sherlock. The patient stared at it for a few seconds and then lifted his face.

“How long till I can get out?”

“Depends on how the assessment goes. You will not have to answer any questions that you feel uncomfortable with. Just try to be as truthful as possible. If you are getting tired, let me know anytime. I must warn you that this session will be quite long.” Sherlock nodded glumly.

“Have you ever had a counseling session before?” The consulting detective shook his head. “Have you ever considered having one?”

“Yes.”

“How much control did you feel you had the night you were sent here?”  

“Do you mean did I have a choice in coming here?” Sherlock asked back sourly.

“No, I meant your suicidal impulse.” The words hit him solid in the chest, and Sherlock was suddenly aware of the gravity of the issue. That was indeed a proper suicide attempt that he had executed the other day. He was surprised that he did not recognize it in that term until now. He considered it more as a task that he had to carry out. It was not an option, but an obligation to end his life. It was the only path he could go down. Sherlock blinked and let out a shaky sigh.

“It felt like the most rational thing to do. I was in control in a sense.”

…

Dr. Simmons asked to meet John the day after his first session with Sherlock.

“Am I correct to say that you are the closest friend to Sherlock?” He asked politely. John nodded.

“We’ve been a bit distant for the past few months but yes, I still regard myself as his closest friend.”

“Any reason to why you two became remote if you don’t mind me asking?”  John opened his mouth but wondered what to say. Mycroft had told him that he was allowed to speak about Magnussen to Simmons, but John didn’t know where he should begin.

“I got married.” He merely stated.

“Have you noticed any unusual behavior by Sherlock in the past?” Simmons asked. John grimaced.

“A lot. But it’s not what you think. He wasn’t like this before. He was more energetic. Perhaps also erratic, but he was also very expressive. Whereas, recently, he is very withdrawn and deflated.”

“Do you have any idea to what could have triggered this? Any traumatic events or loss?” John bit his lips.

“I could think of a couple. He had an especially bumpy ride the last few years. He was abroad for two years, doing a series of highly demanding tasks. I have no idea what he’s been through specifically, but I assume that it was up to no good. He came back a slightly different person. I thought he softened up a lot.  But he relapsed back into substance abuse not long after my marriage. He got shot and was hospitalized for quite a time. And er…he…” John’s voice trailed away. He licked his lips and racked for the right words, but he couldn’t find any. “He shot a man in the head.” A moment of silence passed between the two doctors.

“Has Sherlock discussed with you if any of these events was especially troubling for him?”

“Never.” John shook his head and felt guilty for not even bothering to ask Sherlock.

After that, Simmons asked more questions about how Sherlock behaved when he was more energetic, and whether there were other problematic episodes that led him to harm himself or others. John mentioned a couple of dodgy incidents that Sherlock has come across in the past and his tendency to lack empathy and be manipulative.

At the end of the session, John asked if he could visit Sherlock.

“Of course. Seeing you might do some good.” The psychiatrist said. “Sherlock seems to be confused at the moment. But he’s handling the depressive exhaustion better now so you may be able to have a proper conversation with him.”

When John entered the room, the consulting detective was sitting on the top of the bed, knees bent, head rested in between the knees. At first he thought Sherlock was asleep but his friend lifted his head at the sound of intrusion. His light blue eyes were hollow, but he registered John immediately.

“How are you doing, Sherlock?” John tried to ask in an even tone, but it came out shaky. Sherlock dropped his head back down. “Sherlock?”

“Mmm,” His friend answered groggily. John took a step towards Sherlock. He gently lifted Sherlock’s head and looked into his eyes.

“Did they give you something?” Sherlock dropped his gaze and shook his head. John licked his lips. “What’s going through your mind right now?”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged, and the detective looked utterly defeated. A long moment of silence passed as John waited patiently for Sherlock to muster the energy to vocalize his troubles.

“I just want to stop everything.”  Sherlock finally muttered.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Some time. I can’t remember from when.” John grimaced.

“How often do you think like this?” he gently asked as he pulled up a chair beside Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock looked up at the doctor with a dark expression.

“Recently? All the time.”

“Jesus Sherlock,” John breathed. “Why didn’t you mention this?”

“I didn’t see the need to.” Sherlock said unconvincingly. This comment hurt John.

“Of course you didn’t.” He murmured and sighed. “Sherlock, this may not sound very convincing right now but you need to understand that it will get better. So please, don’t narrow everything down to one solution.”

Sherlock let out a nervous laugh and placed his shaky hand on his mouth.

“I can’t.”

“Please,” John pleaded. Sherlock’s breath became shallower and tears start to well up. He choked up a sob and shook his head. All John could do was reach for his best friend’s shoulder and squeeze it tightly as Sherlock battled to maintain his composure.

…

“It’s hard to narrow it down to a single diagnosis at this point but Sherlock’s behavior, far before any of this bloomed into a suicidal episode, has a manic-depressive tendency.“ Doctor Simmons explained. “But due to his personality, history of substance abuse, erratic lifestyle, highly stressful and physically demanding occupation, it could also be a byproduct of several mental health conditions. Some of the most likely are post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. Especially for the last few months, Sherlock has been suffering from something very similar to severe depression but the nature of his suicidal impulse seems more like a mixed episode. As far as I know, his symptoms are not psychotic. For the time being, I would advise against medical prescriptions and recommend cognitive behavioral therapy.”

“I see,” Mycroft murmured. Sherlock was seated next to him with a glum look on his face. Simmons turned to the younger Holmes with a concerned look.

“From now on, it is important that you stay away from stressful situations, Sherlock. And try to maintain a regular diet and sleeping cycle. You are to have regular counseling sessions with me twice a week.”

“So I can go home now?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, you may. But you will have to take a break from your work for a while.” Sherlock lowered his head and clenched his fist. He felt like society has let him off the team and he was not in the game anymore.

As Sherlock and Mycroft left the hospital and climbed into their escort vehicle, Sherlock quietly asked,

“Have you spoken to mum and dad about this?”

“Yes, I have.” Mycroft answered. “They suggested you stay at their place for the time being.” Sherlock scoffed.

“They just want to make sure to see me again before I kill myself.” He said darkly. Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella.

“They are more experienced with this than anyone else, Sherlock. Remember Uncle Rudy.”

“Why do you keep comparing me with Uncle Rudy? I’m not into cross-dressing.”

“Yes, but he’s been diagnosed with manic depression as well.”

“I’m not bipolar.”

Mycroft did not reply, but he was pleased with the fact that Sherlock conversed properly with him for the first time in ages.

…

In the end, Sherlock did not go back to his parent’s place but instead, rented a small flat in Hampstead Heath for two months. The seclusion from the bustle of central London calmed him down, but it wasn’t too quiet to the point that it drove him to madness. The city center was still accessible from where he was, and it was closer to John’s new residence than Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson complained about the boys being absent from the flat again, but Sherlock promised to visit her every so often to have her lovely dinner.

He was given a daily routine to execute by Dr. Simmons, which consisted of tedious daily tasks such as shopping for food, cooking, and jogging. He contemplated on boycotting all of this in the beginning, but he was sure Mycroft had surveillance wired up all over the place to tell whether Sherlock has been active or not. He was not allowed to work on any of his experiments for no more than two hours per day. Any more than that and he was to be immediately sent to live with his parent’s or the hospital.

John, Greg and even Molly visited him every so often to check up on him. Especially during the weekends. John would entertain Sherlock with a couple of classic board games while Lestrade showed him silly videos on his phone. The detective inspector was prohibited from speaking about anything related to crime. Alcohol, cigarettes, and even caffeinated drinks were put on cold turkey for the time being. They offered to listen to Sherlock’s troubles and personal emotions, but Sherlock never let the topic of the conversation flow in that direction.

Sherlock didn’t enjoy the routine, but it was reassuring to be given a task every day. It helped him ground himself and numbed the devastating feeling inside him. He was just staying alive and for once, he felt like he knew how to. That didn’t mean that the depressive feelings disappeared, but he tried not to dwell too much upon that.

Whenever he tried to read or work on his experiments, however, he felt slow and agitated. Things didn’t come to him as quickly as it used to, and his lack of focus irritated him. What he could have managed in two hours before, took him days. In that sense, he was glad that he was discouraged from working. He didn’t have to acknowledge his declining ability if he didn’t work.

Counseling was not his favorite task either. Vocalizing his feelings had never been his turf, so each question was a struggle to answer. Simmons seemed to know everything about Sherlock, including what he had experienced during his undercover years.

“How often do you think back at your experience in Serbia?”

“Rarely.”

“In what occasion do you do so then?”

“When it is relevant.”

“How would you describe your experience?”

“It was a very busy time.”

“And?”

“And what?” Sherlock asked back with genuine confusion. “I said I was busy. I don’t look back at my life and label each moment with personal feelings.”

“How many people did you kill while undercover?” Simmons asked bluntly.

“None. I was very careful.”

“And Magnussen?” Sherlock pursed his lips.

“What about him?” His voice was steely all of the sudden.

“Do you think your judgment to shoot Magnussen was correct?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you feel in control of the situation?”

“Are you implying that I shot Magnussen because I was suffering from an episode?” Sherlock asked with a hostile frown.

“What do you think?” Simmons asked gently. Sherlock shot to his feet and left the office without a word. 

It frightened Sherlock terribly when he thought back on the day he tried to jump into the road. He had absolute confidence in what he was doing, and it felt exhilarating. It was like achieving victory. Everything was going to be a win-win game where he would be happy to be dead and so did everyone else. When Lestrade pulled him away from the cars, a sense of disappointment and failure washed over him. The same thing happened when John visited him on the night he was going to overdose. Rather than feeling ashamed of the fact that he was attempting suicide, he was ashamed that the opportunity was taken away from him. He was so sure of what he was doing.

Has he always been making poor judgments without being aware of it until now? What about the decisions he had made in the past? Can he trust his mind with anything? Is it bad that he does no regret killing Magnussen? Thoughts like this circled in his head all the time after the counseling sessions.

…

John was impressed with how cooperative Sherlock was with his therapy. It just shows how desperate Sherlock is for some sense of control. His friend looked more fit and healthy than before but was still reserved and withdrawn from talking about his emotions. John realized that it was not that the consulting detective didn’t want to, but he couldn’t. Sherlock had a habit of rationalizing his emotions, and if he couldn’t rationalize it, he suppressed it within himself and didn’t register it. It is a part of his survival skill and coping method that he acquired long back in his childhood. What Simmons is trying to do during his counseling with Sherlock is to teach him the proper way to process emotions. It was one day when Mary came along with John when he thought Sherlock was finally getting the hang of being more honest with his intuitive feelings.

“You look quite fine recently, Sherlock.” She complimented with a smile. Sherlock hummed in a satisfactory agreement as he poured a cup of tea.

“I feel fine.” He remarked. “I don’t have to struggle much to keep myself from thinking about the dark things.” This was the most personal information Sherlock had ever shared with them. He didn’t think it was long until Sherlock could return to work.

How mistaken he was.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mood swing takes a violent turn to the point he cannot function properly.  
> Everyone around him must fight to keep Sherlock from veering from his path, but the consulting detective's complex psychological condition complicates things.  
> ...  
> Sherlock is introduced to a new case but his self destructive nature becomes an inevitable obstacle

Despite the initial shock and stir, life carried on. By the time Sherlock’s two long months of exile in Hampstead Heath came to an end, everyone including the consulting detective himself, went back to their original routines. Sherlock was back in Baker Street, the counseling was dropped to just once in every other week and he was given permission to return to work.

“But no stressful cases.” Simmons warned. Lestrade refrained from overwhelming Sherlock with cases but clients flowed in non-stop. Business was booming as usual for Sherlock Holmes.

John could not assist Sherlock’s work as much as he liked to. With the baby on the way and him being busy with his own practices, it was hard to make time for an adventure with his dear friend. However, Molly seemed to be filling in the vacancy when Sherlock really needed assistance. All was fine. If anything went wrong, Molly will be there to alert him, and there was also the regular session with Simmons. Everyone knew what to look out for.

Several weeks passed with peace until one morning, Mary approached John with a plain looking envelope in her hand.

“Sherlock’s sent us something.” She said as John munched on his breakfast toast.

“What, Sherlock?” John asked in disbelief as he received the envelope from Mary. He flipped it over to see the Watson’s home address scribbled in a familiar, rushed handwriting of his best friend. John frowned. Sherlock sent him texts and sometimes messengers from the homeless network but never a letter. He raised it to his nose sniffed it suspiciously. Mary laughed.

“Oh come on, don’t be such a drama queen. Open it!”

John carefully ripped it open and peered inside. He pulled out a small note that said,

_Final night out for you two. Before the baby comes._

John pulled out the remaining content. It was pair of tickets to a play at a West End theater. The show was _The 39 Steps_ in the Drury Lane. This Friday evening.

“Well, that’s very sweet of him.” Mary said cheerily as she peered over John’s shoulder. “I wonder how he found out we had the Friday open.”

“You know his method.” John murmured but he could not hide his tone of surprise too. “I guess we have something to look forward to.”

It turned out, Sherlock was also be accompanying them that Friday evening. When Mary and John found their seats, the two gave a double take to make sure they were not imagining things. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the row with an innocent look on his face. John should have seen it coming for Sherlock had done something very similar several years ago when he went out on a date with Sarah to a see Chinese traveling circus performance. When Sherlock suggests a date, he joins in.

 “John, Mary,” He greeted and tucked his phone away in his pocket. “I was about to text you to see whether you were coming or not.”

“I would have given it another thought if I knew you were here as well. Plays, really? You can barely stand films and telly.” John huffed and sat beside Sherlock. “You better not be up to something.”

“Relax, John. I thought it would be a good way to refresh ourselves. Besides, plays are not that bad. I in fact, use a lot of theatrical acting methodology for my investigations. It’s become quite a useful skill, you know.”

“Oh yes, of course.” John rolled his eyes remembering many of the interviewees who have fallen victim to Sherlock’s masterful acting skills in the past.

“Oh come on, John. I know you’re happy to see Sherlock too” Mary said teasingly. It was true. John was happy to see Sherlock doing well and a night out with him was something they haven’t done for weeks. He turned to Mary and then to Sherlock. The consulting detective scrunched up his face and gave him a boyish smile but as the lights became darker for the show, John thought Sherlock’s face slipped to a very serious look.

John was familiar with Hitchcock’s film version of _The 39 Steps_ but never seen a stage adaptation of it. It was a series of banter between the characters with a noir suspense plot. As the show progressed, John found himself enjoying it more and more. It was funny, witty, and fast paced. An actor was on stage now, doing a rather lengthy monologue, with all the spotlights aimed at him. John was so immersed in the performance, he was leaning forward. It could have just been John but he thought the actor’s composure wavered for a fraction of a second there. He shifted his weight from one leg to another and his voice trembled in a very uncharacteristic manner. John frowned and exchanged looks with Mary. He turned to Sherlock to ask whether this was part of the show. He merely shrugged back. The actor stopped mid-speech and stumbled a couple of steps forward, his arm outstretched as if to search for something to latch on to. Before they knew it, the actor topped over from the stage and onto the audience floor. Gasps erupted from the crowd, including that of John and Mary’s. John turned to Sherlock. The consulting detective was grinning.

“I _knew_ you were up to something!” John roared as the three of them mounted into a cab. Mary and John sat side by side while Sherlock sat across them. His long legs nearly touched John’s.

“You are acting as if I was the culprit.” Sherlock said calmly. The rest of the show was cancelled. Their tickets were refunded. Sherlock ended up not paying even a pence for tonight’s entertainment.

“If you had been paying attention to the news, you should have known that the recent box office sales in the west end is struggling.” His friend continued in his deadpan, baritone voice.

“You were grinning!” John exclaimed again. Mary grimaced.

“Accidents, John, 3 weeks in a row! All different theaters! Isn’t that exciting?” Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m sorry?”

“I wanted to see if for myself before the Yard came calling for my help, which I am confident will happen soon.”

Sherlock was right. The police came running to him a few days later.

With the media already handling the incident with great enthusiasm, a high profile consulting detective joining the investigation was like pouring petrol onto a fire. All eyes were on Sherlock and John cringed as he remembered Dr. Simmons’ warning; “no stressful cases”. However, completely opposite to John’s predictions, Sherlock considered it as a treat. He gleefully accepted the case. It wasn’t a grim serial murder case. It was actors flopping off stage every now and then and hospitalized with a nasty bump on its head. For Sherlock, it was pure entertainment. As the cherry on top, it was DI Dimmock who was in charge of the case, meaning that Sherlock had almost absolute cooperation from the Yard.

“As far as I can see, we can rule out poisonous darts.” Dimmock explained as he gave Sherlock a tour around the Drury Lane Theater. “It’s too large.”

“Poisonous dart?” Sherlock scoffed. “First of all, none of the victims felt any physical pain before they fell over.”

“Poison, then?” Dimmock suggested uncertainly.

“Yes, that would be a more educated guess.” Sherlock said and gazed up at the ceiling. “Have you checked all the spot lights?”

“Er, no…”

Sherlock squinted up at the metal railings that hung above the stage.

“Do a background check on all staff that were present during the show. Everyone. I’m going home to do my own research.” The consulting detective ordered and briskly walked toward the theater exit.

…

John couldn’t help smiling when he found a text from Sherlock after work. Considering how Sherlock had recently replaced John with Molly, Billy, and Lestrade, it was a pleasant surprise to find an invitation to join the investigation.

 _I need my blogger. Ask Mary._ -SH

“Of course, I won’t mind.” Mary replied with an excited glimmer to her eyes as John asked whether it was okay for him to help Sherlock out. “I’m sure the little one can wait a bit more.” She patted her stomach. John placed a hand over her hand and smiled. Regardless of what they’ve been through in the last few months, these moments are when John is reminded of why he fell in love with Mary.

Sherlock’s so-called blogger bound up the stairs to 221B Baker Street that weekend. Halfway through the steps, the door leading to the flat’s sitting room opened and a young woman in a tight dress and the most toxic-looking neon colored nails stepped out. John came to a sudden halt, wondering if he had intruded on one of Sherlock’s client meetings. She pulled out a cigarette pack from in between her fleshy bosom and tapped out a roll. She stuck it in between her blood red lips and stuffed the pack back where it came from. She finally seemed to have noticed John, who merely stared back at her with a mixture of surprise and uneasiness. She turned her head back towards the flat with a fling of her long brunette hair.

“You got company!”

She then winked at John and advanced toward the staircase. Her black, pin heel shoes clonked as she passed by John and exited the door. The doctor blinked at the door in confusion a couple of times before he made his way up the rest of the staircase. Sherlock had a lot of clients. But never had John seen any woman as memorable as her around Baker Street.

“Are you in, Sherlock?” John called out as he stepped into the flat. A thick smell of smoke and tar hit his nose immediately. The room was covered in a layer of white fog. “What the hell!” John covered his mouth with his arm and coughed.

“I told her not to smoke but she didn’t listen.” Sherlock said as he strode out of his bedroom. He too had a cigarette in his mouth. John stumbled across the flat and opened the windows.

“I thought you quit.” He turned to the consulting detective to see that not only was he puffing a cigarette, he also held an ashtray full of cigarette butts smooshed into it. John groaned.

“Please don’t tell me you smoked all of that.”

“Most of it is her. I only smoked a few. ” John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock’s mouth twitched.  “It was quite tempting.” John stalked up to his friend, yanked the cigarette from Sherlock’s mouth, and smooshed it into the ashtray.

“If you don’t mind, I don’t want to die of lung cancer before my child is born.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. A strong smell of smoke wafted from his mouth. _Only smoked a few, my arse._

“Were you smoking all night long or what?”

“Pretty much.” Sherlock said and emptied the ashtray into the fireplace. John frowned at his friend’s inappropriate way of taking care of cigarette rubbish. He also noticed how Sherlock was dressed only in trousers and a shirt, which was open all the way down to his third button and untucked. Sherlock usually met his client -or anyone for that matter- well dressed.

“What…?” John couldn’t finish the sentence. If this wasn’t Sherlock, he would have been able to easily surmise what had been going on here not too long ago. However, this was Sherlock. Sherlock I’m-married-to-my-work Holmes. Instead, John asked, “Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright.” Sherlock answered with a shrug and he plopped the ash tray on the fireplace mantle. He slapped some cigarette ash from his hands and placed it on his waist in a protective manner.

“Okay…that is good to hear.” Now that the smoke in the room was clearing up, breathing became easier. John decided not to go back to the topic regarding the lady. “So how is the case going?”

At these words, Sherlock’s eyes lit up. He rubbed his hands together and hurried to the kitchen table where there was a clutter of petri dishes, laboratory flask, and papers.

“The culprit is quite a clever one. So far, I haven’t found any matches on drugs or chemical components.” He showed John a slightly crumpled paper with a list of various chemicals that Sherlock had scribbled down. All of it had an X mark on the side.

“So then comes my next hypothesis, hypnosis.”

John smirked at these words.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, this is a very plausible theory.” Sherlock asserted. “None of the victims experienced hallucinations before they fell. However, they all heard a buzzing noise and became nauseous.”

“Okay,”

“And if not drugs the other plausible method is-”

“Hypnosis. Okay, sure. But why? Who would go around approaching stage actors and hypnotize them so that they will flop off from the stage?” John blurted. It was such a ridiculous idea even for Sherlock.

“That is where you come in.” Sherlock smiled and at him. “I had Dimmock do some of the basic work.” The consulting detective plucked out another piece of paper and handed it to John

 “I always do the sniffing around, don’t I?”

“You have better people skills.” Sherlock said as-a-matter-of-factly. “You said it yourself. Meanwhile, I need to do an extensive research on hypnotism.”

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock ushered him out of the flat. As the consulting detective approached him, John could swear he saw a slight lipstick smear on Sherlock’s left jaw.

…

The suspect list was a crude one at best. It was doubtful you should even call it a list in the first place. John was given only two names from The 39 Steps production. One was an assistant stage manager by the name of Stacey Finley and the other was a junior set design artists called Arthur Cornwell. A light background information was jotted down by Dimmock.

According to him, Finley was witnessed having some kind of a heated argument with the main actor, Richard Stone during the final rehearsal. Cornwell on the other hand, was a learning set designer with potential but had a reputation for being a bit hot headed outside of his work place. He had a minor criminal record concerning a scuffle at a pub a few months ago. Both could have a motive to attack Stone but the problem was that neither of them had anything to do with the other productions in the west end that also suffered from the incident. Sherlock must have decided that the possibility of either of these two being the culprit is incredibly low. Yet, unable to rule it out completely, he had asked John to double check.

When John rang the doorbell of Finley’s home in Ealing, he was surprised to see Stone answer it. He opened it a crack, blinked, and slowly opened the door wider. He was taller than the impression he gave on stage, looked haggard, and had a sling around his right arm. John cleared his throat and said politely,

“I’m John Watson. I work for Scotland Yard” he could have said he worked for Sherlock Holmes but something in Stone’s eyes showed hostility and John decided to play it safe. “I believe this is Ms. Finley’s home?”

“Yes,” Stone said hesitantly and stepped away from the door to give room for John to pass through. “Come in. Stace said she was expecting you.”

The flat was spacey and seemed slightly above the pay rent of an average assistant production manager. Stacey Finley greeted him, sat John on the couch, and served him tea. Before John could say anything, Finley offered,

“If you feel more comfortable talking without Richard, that’s fine.”

“Erm, actually, that is a good idea.” John replied cautiously. Finley nodded at Stone, who let out a sigh and excused himself out of the room. John took a sip from his tea while he waited Stone to be out of earshot.

“So you two live together?” He asked rather bluntly. Finely nodded and wrapped her hands around her mug.

“We’ve known each other for five years. I suppose I’m a suspect?” John nodded honestly. Finely let out a huff and began to explain her story.

Apparently, the fight started with a rather trivial matter. With the final preparation of the show approaching a climax, Finley’s nerves were strained to the point where she couldn’t keep her professionalism. Foolishly, she brought matters of private life into an argument. No one in the production knew that the two were together. They ended up in the same production by chance. Unfortunately, this coincidence happened when their relationship was going through a bumpy ride. From the perspective of the onlookers, it seemed as if Finley was being incredibly cocky and rude to the lead actor.

“I understand how it seemed, but I can assure you, I’d like to know who is responsible for this as much as you do.” Finley finished and looked directly into John’s eyes.

“Do you know anyone that might want to harm Mr. Stone?”

Finley shook her head.

“He’s just starting to make a name in his career. I doubt anyone in our profession would have anything against him.” John nodded and decided to call it quits. He asked if he could talk to Stone as well. Finley disappeared briefly to fetch her boyfriend. John scanned the room again and fathomed the possibility of Finley smuggling poison to Stone. Then he remembered Sherlock’s comment. No drugs or chemical components found in the blood samples of any victims…

Stone sat down in front of John with a huff. Unlike his mannerism on stage, Stone omitted an atmosphere of dread, heaviness, and exhaustion, which reminded him briefly of Sherlock a few months ago.

“Can you describe to me what it was like before you collapsed, Mr. Stone?”

“It was really unpleasant is all I can say.”

“Unpleasant?”

“Yeah,” Stone scrunched up his face and waved his free hand around his ear. “Heard, some…voices or something. I don’t know but I was saying my lines and it got muddled up because I thought someone was whispering in my head. The next thing I know, I’m on the floor with a bloody broken arm.” John blinked.

As a trained doctor, John immediately considered several possibilities for auditory hallucination. Tumors, sleep deprivation, schizophrenia…

“But it wasn’t like that, you know.” Stone said as if he read John’s mind. “I’ve not heard voices before. Nor after that. It was just a one-off thing.” At this, Finley’s face flashed into a grimace for a second but disappeared before John could surmise anything from it.

“Have you met anyone before you went on stage that night?”

“What do you mean?” Stone’s voice had a hint of alarm.

“I mean as in, spoken to anyone unusual?” John contemplated the idea of hypnosis. Despite how ridiculous it seemed, it was worth checking if Sherlock was looking into it. Stone let out a bark of laughter.

“I speak to a lot of people. Quite a bit of people visit my dressing room. I can’t remember who I met on which night.”

John decided it was time he departed for his next interview. He politely shook hands with the couple at the door.

“I wouldn’t ask you to keep our relationship a secret but I trust you will keep it away from the theater crew as much as possible?” Stone asked quietly. John smiled and nodded.

…

Arthur Cornwell was a fit man who seemed like the last person to have interest in theater, and yet the marvelous artworks and paintings that were hung in the studio was mostly his.

“I’ve just got out of art school. I did a few years in construction before applying.” He shrugged and took off his goggles and mask. Apparently, John had interrupted Cornwell while he was spray painting a fake door. There was no one else at the studio. John pointed this out and Cornwell smiled.

“Everyone’s decided to have a break while this whole conundrum’s taking place. The rest of the show’s cancelled indefinitely.”

“But you’re here.”

“I like what I do.”  The two sat down at a working table cluttered with paper, rulers, and pieces of scraped wood.

“How long have you known Richard Stone?”

“Not much. I’ve met him before when he was doing a smaller role, but I’m just a newbie set designer. There isn’t much opportunity to talk to each other unless there’s a massive set malfunction. I don’t think he even knows me.”

“Were there any issues with the stage set or props prior to the incident?”

“Not under my watch, no.” Cornwell answered proudly.

“Any rumors regarding the cast or crew?”

“I remember one of the production assistants had a row with Richard. But then again, it’s understandable. Everyone’s a bit edgy during rehearsals.”

John was sure he hit another dead end. He decided he should have a light conversation with Cornwell before excusing himself to be polite.

“So why did you decide to become a set designer?”

“I was frustrated with my first job.” He shrugged. “I found myself being really unhappy for some reason. My pay was way better at that time, mind you. But then I realized I needed to do something about it when I found myself getting smashed on a daily basis.”

Harry’s face appeared in John’s mind as he heard this and wondered how his sister was doing recently.

“I was always good at arts and craft.” Cornwell continued. “Might as well do something useful with my hands than beat people up, huh?” he said with a boyish smile.

“Look, I understand how I’m naturally a suspect here.” He added as he saw John’s blank expression. “That Dimmock officer really latched on to me earlier.”

“Sorry about that,” John said sympathetically.

“No it’s alright. In fact, I was hoping the Reichenbach Hero would come and see me himself, no offense to you.”

“None taken.” John said with a weak smile. It’s been a while since he heard the term “Reichenbach Hero.”. It had an ironic ring to it.

“What’s he like?” Cornwell asked with excitement in his eyes. John thought for a second. How do you explain what Sherlock is like? Eccentric? Brilliant? Genius?

“A bit like you, I suppose. Devoted to his work.” Cornwell seemed very pleased with this remark.

…

A hot bubble of irritation erupted out of nowhere as John took the cab to Baker Street. How did he become relegated from Sherlock’s personal assistant to a random errand runner? Was his friend trying to push him away again? Or was it John’s fault that he was not able to gather any vital leads from the interview? Could Sherlock have done it better?

John was given a day of freedom from domesticity and he expected to spend the day running around London with Sherlock at his side, but what he got instead was an utter disappointment. He texted briefly to Sherlock that he was visiting. John didn’t care to wait for a reply from his friend. He rang the door and as usual, Mrs. Hudson answered the door.

“John!”

“Is Sherlock in?’

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good.” John said briskly and bound up the stairs. Without knocking, he barged into the flat. Sherlock was lying spread eagle on the floor like the Vitruvian man. In fact, it was very much like a Vitruvian man because the detective had pushed the furniture away to draw a large circle on the rug with white chalk.

“Mrs. Hudson will not be happy with this.” John growled. Sherlock sat up immediately and clapped his hands together excitedly.

“John! What have you got for me?”

“Nothing exciting.” John murmured glumly.

“Hm, it was still worth a try though.”

Sherlock gathered up his lanky legs and scrambled up to his feet. His attire was back to his usual cleanly state with the slim cut suit jacket.

“And what have you been doing all day, trying to conjure up the devil?” John noticed that under where Sherlock had been lying down was massive scribble of what seemed like ancient runes of some sort.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed and bound across the room to his kitchen. The paper and books scattered all over the place and seemed to have multiplied since John’s earlier visit. “Helps me think.”

“I thought the violin helped you think.”

“I’m trying something new.” Sherlock said as he poured some whiskey into a glass. John frowned. Sherlock rarely drank during a case. Just as he avoided eating, he claimed that it slowed him down.

“Are you sure you should be…” John’s voice trailed off. “You already had more than enough nicotine today.”

“Like I said, I’m trying something new.” Sherlock shrugged and filled another glass for John and handed it to him.

“You still remember what Doctor Simmons-“

“I _know_ what he said.” Sherlock snapped irritably and flopped onto his arm chair. John slowly sunk himself in the other. Since Sherlock had moved them away closer toward the fireplace, the distance between the two arm chairs were slightly smaller than usual. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently as he took a sip from his glass. John watched his friend silently and pondered whether it was safe to tell Sherlock off or not.

“So what kind of unexciting information do you have for me?” The consulting detective’s expression suddenly softened and lit up like an excited child waiting for a bed time story. John took a deep breath and explained what he managed to squeeze out of his interviews. Sherlock cradled his glass of whiskey and listened silently to both Finley and Cornwell’s account before he began asking questions. As expected, Sherlock showed a high interest in the auditory hallucination.

“He said voices?” Sherlock frowned.

“Or something like that.” John added. Sherlock downed the rest of his drink. John merely stared.

“Was it a quiet one or an annoying one?”

“He said whispering. Couldn’t make out what it was saying but he said it muddled up his lines.”

Sherlock put his hands together and tucked it under his chin like he usually did when he was thinking hard. Except John noticed that his long fingers were trembling slightly. Alarm bells went off in his head immediately.

“Sherlock,” John called gently. His friend did not reply. His eyes were fixed at a single point beyond John’s shoulder. John licked his lips and tried again,

“Sherlock”

“I’m thinking.”

“No you’re not. You just replied to me.” John said between his clenched teeth. Sherlock dropped his hands and frowned at John.

“I always do.”

“Yes, usually several hours later, when you’ve emerged back from your mind palace or whatever the hell is going on in that head of yours.” Sherlock let out a huff and looked away. The conversation they had inside the plane crawled back at Sherlock and John.

Sherlock picked up his empty whiskey glass which was now propped up on the flat surface of his arm rest and stood up abruptly.

“I think that’s enough, Sherlock,” John blurted as he saw Sherlock pour some more whiskey well over halfway through the glass. Sherlock placed the bottle down on the kitchen counter a bit too roughly. John slowly stood up.

“What the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Are you familiar with the term Odic Force? Did you know that in the 19th century, there was a man named Carl Ludwig von Reichenbach? There was a fairly recent incident in Florida where a school principle was charged for hypnotizing his pupils to commit suicide. But really, how are you going to confirm that? No one can know for sure unless you call the dead back to life and question them.” Sherlock spat the words out as if he was an automatic machine gun.

“I can see that your hypnosis hypothesis was a dead end as well.” John remarked cautiously.

“As interesting as it was, I can conclude that Richard Stone and the other actors have most definitely not been put under any kind of hypnosis whatsoever. On the other hand, this idea of Odin Force and magnetism has lead me to a different-” His speech was interrupted by a sharp clash. Sherlock’s fingers slipped and his glass of whiskey was smashed to pieces.

John knelt over to pluck the larger shards and put it to one side before he went to fetch a dustpan. When he came back, he was astounded to find Sherlock crouched on the floor with a bloody finger.

“I was about to tell you not to cut yourself.” John muttered as he swept the floor. Sherlock still plucked the shards with his blood smeared hand. John noticed that his friend’s hands were still trembling. As the two knelt over the floor, John noticed Sherlock’s breath included a whiff of smoke from earlier but also a significant amount of alcohol. It didn’t take Sherlock bloody Holmes to deduce that his friend had been drinking way before John had joined him. Harry’s face flashed in his head again.

As soon as John took care of all the rubbish, he chucked the dustpan roughly to one side and turned to Sherlock, who was running his injured finger under the water.

“You still have my medical bag?” John said with a sigh.

“Yes, it’s upstairs.” Replied a dead pan voice.

John hurried to his old room, which had now evolved into a hybrid between a storage and a one star hotel room. Strangely, the bed was still made. Did Sherlock ever sleep in here? His medical bag was under the bed.

Sherlock’s cut was a shallow one so he just applied some antibacterial cream and a large plaster. The tremble had lessened but it was still noticeable. Unable to avoid the elephant in the room, John gently asked,

“How much?”

“Mmm?” Sherlock hummed innocently.

“You know what I’m talking about.” John snapped shut his medical bag. His friend didn’t answer immediately. After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock stood up and picked up a slip of note paper from the table. John’s heart sank as he took the note. He was relieved to see that at least cocaine, morphine, opium or any of the hardcore narcotics were absent from the list. Still, John could not act as if everything was alright.

“Dammit Sherlock, seriously?”  

Sherlock didn’t betray any emotions on his expression.

“Three packs of cigarette and half a bottle of scotch?”

“Better than the alternative, I supposed.”

“Which is?”

Sherlock did not answer.

“As a doctor, I will tell you that this amount of consumption is dangerous for anyone. As _your_ doctor, I will tell you that you are a stupid git. In your case, it’s especially…” John could not finish the sentence. He let out an enormous sigh and lowered his head.

“Especially what? Go on.” The tone was provocative and demanding.

“Dangerous! Why do you think you had go cold turkey for two whole months?”

“I’m _fine_ now. Anyway, as I was saying earlier, the idea that I had was what if-”

“Don’t ‘anyway’ me, Sherlock.” John growled dangerously. “What is this you’re trying to do? Do you want to kill yourself again?”

“Which one are you referring to?”

“Nope,” John shook his head. “It’s not funny.” The note was crumpled up in his tightly clenched fist. “I can’t handle this alone. I’m calling Mycroft.”

“And what do you suppose he should do with me? I’m not suicidal, John. I just need to take the edge off.”

“Take the edge off? You hired a bloody prostitute last night!”

“So what?”

“It’s not like you!”

“WELL WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW ABOUT ME?” Sherlock roared.

At the most perfect –or disastrous- timing, Mrs. Hudson knocked the door frame and peered in.

“Go away, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock dismissed coldly before she could open her mouth.

“Do I need to call Mary, boys?”

“Yes, in fact, that might be a good idea. Tell her, her husband needs to be taken home.”  Sherlock snarled.

John pulled his mobile out of his pocket and huffed,

“And you need to be taken to your brother’s.”

…

In the end, both John and Sherlock were escorted back to John’s house by one of Mycroft’s, luxurious, pitch black “kidnappers” as John habitually referred to.

“I understand the situation, Dr. Watson. Thank you for informing me. I think it would be wise for my brother to spend the night under someone’s supervision, if that is alright with you.”

“Why can’t it be you?”

“I’m afraid my brother will merely try to escape if he were to stay with me.”

 “How about Greg?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade will be nagged by my brother to provide an interesting case.”

“Molly Hooper?”

“Be serious, Doctor.”

“I am serious.”

“He’ll only try to manipulate her and Ms. Hooper would most definitely be more than happy to deliver several extra slaps across my brother’s face.” There was a hint of resignation in Mycroft’s voice.

“Okay, okay, he’s coming to my place. I’m not spending the night at his place. Mary’s still pregnant.”

“Thank you.” And the line went dead.

Sherlock refused to be treated like a proper house guest and insisted he sleep on the couch instead of a bed.

“If you haven’t noticed, Sherlock, we have a guest room.”

“I won’t be sleeping anyway.” Sherlock waved at John as he paced up and down the living room.

“At least eat something, please.”

“Not hungry.”

“You fill yourself with all that shit, yet you refuse to eat something proper.” John shook his head and signaled Mary that the show was over and it was time the Watson head to bed instead.

“If you want anything, we’ll be in our bedroom, Sherlock.” She called out but Sherlock didn’t seem to register. He merely paced around and growled to himself like a tiger trapped in a cage

It took a while before John could fall asleep that night. The last time he checked the clock, it was well past four in the morning but was confident Sherlock was still awake too. What did he know about Sherlock, indeed? It was only recent that he discovered Sherlock’s trip to his so-called mind palace was not what it seemed.

What did he do during those two years away abroad? What kind thoughts did Sherlock have during that weeklong imprisonment after he shot Magnussen? What was this weight that dragged him down so far down to the point that he tried to get run over by a car? What was he doing with that lady from earlier in the day? Were they merely smoking together or were they blowing kisses down each other’s neck and touching each other? Or did they spend the night tangled together in their bare skin, sweaty and breathing hard? Is Sherlock even capable of all that?

John fought the urge to crawl out of his bed and apologize to Sherlock for his outburst. Sherlock was probably too wound up tonight to accept his apology anyway. It reminded him of that night in Dartmoor during the Baskerville case. A frightened friend, so frail yet too proud to ask for help.

…

The next morning, John was surprised to find Sherlock at the kitchen sipping tea as Mary fussed over him.

“Morning.” Sherlock greeted as if nothing had happened the night before.

“Have you slept at all?” John asked as he rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“No.”

“He was doing push-ups when I got up.” Mary chimed in as she fixed up some eggs.

“Helps me think.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Right, about that,” John licked his lips. “I think you should drop the case, Sherlock.”

“But I need a case.”

“I know but not this one.”

“No. This is at least a nine.”

“And I’m saying you should drop it a notch to maybe something like a three or four for the time being.”

Sherlock scoffed and non-verbally dismissed John’s suggestion as utterly ridiculous.

“At least get some time off. I’ll call Doctor Simmons. You need to talk to him.”

“Dull.”

Mary looked at John as if to say “at least he’s not saying no”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, this is the Florida lawsuit case.  
> As bizarre as it may sound, it actually happened, and quite recently too. 
> 
> http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/teens-died-after-principals-hypnotism_56156093e4b0fad1591a6f04


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock enters a strange phase making John and others unsure if Sherlock is approaching recovery or regressing and an intriguing case develops into a high-stakes case.

“This won’t work if you won’t cooperate.”

“I don’t need therapy.”

Simmons silently reached out to his table and pulled out an article of The Mirror with Sherlock on the cover; 7 TIMES A NIGHT AT BAKER STREET. 

“For heaven’s sake, it’s the bloody Mirror.” Sherlock groaned and kneaded his forehead.

“So you deny everything that is written here?” Simmons asked in a clinical tone.

“Obviously.”

“I don’t want this to be an interrogation session but-”

“What is there to talk about? Why is this an issue all of the sudden? So what if I am sexually active?”  Sherlock blurted irritably.

“Do you normally hire women to sleep with you?”

Sherlock kept his mouth shut and stared back at Simmons. If looks could kill, Simmons would have been long dead. There followed a long moment of silence apart from Sherlock’s impatient tapping of his foot. Seeing that Simmons was determined to make Sherlock talk, the consulting detective finally let out a sigh.

“It's not _normal._ ”

“So this was your first time to...?”

“No.”

Simmons raised an eyebrow to urge further dialogue, but Sherlock did not respond. He folded the copy of The Mirror away as he spied on Sherlock’s impatient fidgeting. It’s been going on throughout today’s session.

“I heard from John that you have been smoking and drinking again.”

“You hear everything from John.” Sherlock snarled.

“And you.”

“And Mycroft.” Sherlock spat back venomously.

“Am I frustrating you? Shall we stop?” Simmons suggested.

Sherlock ruffled his hair with both hands, and let out an animal-like groan. Definitely not a good sign. 

"What happened? You were doing so well." Simmons asked with a concerned look. 

"Nothing happened!" Sherlock shot up to his feet.  "Just that you lot keep on pestering me. My brain is ripping me to shreds as it is, and I have no time for this- whatever this is supposed to be!" 

Sherlock gestured vaguely at the counseling room with an irritated wiggle of his long fingers. He was heaving and his forehead was clammy. 

"Your brain is ripping you to shreds?"

"Yes, I need to work. That's the only way I can stay  _here_." Sherlock frowned to himself as soon as he realized he wasn't making much sense. He looked at Simmons pleadingly. "You can't make me withdraw from the investigation. Please. I need this." 

Simmons searched Sherlock's eyes to determine what was going on in that brilliant mind of this patient. Something wavered in the pale blue eyes. Could it be fear? But what could possibly cause so much distress for the consulting detective? 

 _"_ Oh no, you lied." Simmons breathed out wearily and kneaded his forehead."How many did you kill?" 

The consulting detective did not answer immediately.

"Sherlock." 

"Twelve." Sherlock uttered in a small voice. 

"Christ."

"I lied to prevent any misdiagnosis. I don't suffer from guilt or trauma or...I don't regret it." His voice trailed away and his patient bit his lips uncertainly as if a guilty child. 

"Fine, okay. It's fine." Simmons reassured calmly, but with a slight tone of resignation. "You don't have to make sense of all of it in one go. Let's call it a day." Sherlock blinked in surprise."You can continue on the case, but under one condition. I want you to jot down a number every day. On the scale of one to ten, keep daily evaluation of your anxiety or-"

"I'm not anxious."Sherlock frowned.

"It can be anything. If you feel off-"

"Off?"

"Off or uncomfortable," Simmons elaborated and gave Sherlock a taunting look. "If you feel content, mark one. Ten is when you are close to danger night, or any other emotional-"

Sherlock scrunched up his face with a look of disdain.

"Psychological." Simmons amended. "Psychological toll or drawback that you've experienced that day. Okay? Just remember to take it easy."

Sherlock gave Simmons a suspicious look. 

"That's all I need to do? Write a number everyday?" 

"Yes, and you bring it to me on our next session." 

"That's it?" Sherlock's frown dissolved and turned into an amused expression. 

"Yes." 

"Is this really what professionally trained psychiatrists have come to-" Sherlock piped us in a mocking tone but Simmons interrupted his mockery with a exasperated groan. 

"Oh my goodness, Sherlock!" Before Simmons could say anything more, the detective jumped to his feet and bound out of the counseling room like a child finally dismissed from detention. 

...

 John came back from work to find that Sherlock had gone to his session with Doctor Simmons and  straight back to Baker Street instead of returning back to Mary and his flat.

"Got a text from him earlier" Mary informed John. "Just said, 'Thanks for the tea'". 

John was miffed to find out that Sherlock had not bothered to give a text or call John. A simple gratitude for tea was not enough. He had to make sure that Sherlock was no longer unstable. After having dinner with Mary, he texted Sherlock, 

_I hope you are okay now._

He did not receive a reply that night but he didn't feel like chasing his friend around about that matter so he spent the evening relaxing with Mary.   
Although he knew that he had done the right thing, John could not help but think that he had permanently botched his opportunity to rejoin Sherlock in his detective work like they used to. 

A week later, not long after he finished his shift at the surgery, John received a phone call from Lestrade. 

"Hi mate," Greg began in his usual cheery casual tone. 

"You alright Greg?" John asked, wondering why the DI was suddenly calling him when he was not working with Sherlock anymore. 

"Yeah, good, same-old I guess. Look, Sherlock's still working on the West End case, isn't he?" 

"I assume so. He was reluctant to let the case go when I told him to drop it." John answered with a frown. 

"Ah, Right." 

"Why do you ask?" 

Lestrade sighed at the other end of the line and hesitantly began, 

"Well, the case is now officially my division. There's been another incident. Phantom of the Opera, and this time, a bloke died from the fall."

"Shit," John muttered. "Does Sherlock already know?" 

"Well, we're trying to stall the press but he's bound to know soon, isn't he? With his Homeless Network and all that." The Detective Inspector remarked wearily. "Dimmock told me that Sherlock's been hacking at the case." 

"Yes, but Sherlock isn't fit enough to be dealing with a homicide case." John answered sternly as he grabbed his bag and stalked out of the clinic. 

"I know and the amount of press attention that this case is getting...The old Sherlock would of found it merely a nuisance but I don't know what it would do to him now." 

"It would crush him." John stalked up to the main street and searched the premise for an idle cab instead of going straight to the tube, as usual. "You heading to Baker Street now?" He asked. 

"Yeah, might as well let him know." 

"Meet me there in 15 minutes." 

...

221B Baker Street was never a tidy place but never has it been in such a chaotic state as it was when John and Lestrade visited that evening.   
Even Mrs Hudson seemed to have given up in cleaning it. 

"He won't let me touch anything. I don't even know how to make my way across to the kitchen. It's hideous!" She shook her head as she led the two to the door. She knocked and whistled.

"What is it now, Mrs Hudson?" Came an irritated voice came from the other side. 

"Sherlock, the boys are here to see you." She squeaked nervously. 

All of the sudden, the door burst open and Sherlock peered out with an intense glare. At first his eyes glinted with excitement as he saw Lestrade but as soon as his line of sight dropped to John, the glint disappeared was replaced with a nervous waver. 

"What now?" He asked protectively, making John's heart sink. 

"Busy?"Lestrade asked cheerily. 

"Very." 

"Still working on that theater trick?' He pressed. Sherlock only replied with a grunt, still not inviting the two into the flat and hovering protectively by the door fame. "We got news for you. Mind if we, er...?" Lestrade nudged his head to the direction of the flat. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid away, leaving the door ajar. John and Lestrade exchanged glances and hesitantly stepped over the thresh hold. 

The first thing that hit John when he entered was that familiar stinging smell of cigarette smoke and some other stench that he could not put a name on but smelled equally toxic. The whole living room area was covered with loose, crinkled paper and several medium sized cardboard boxes and wrapping paper. His old chair also had several empty boxes piled one on top of the other. Sherlock's chair had mountains of books and newspaper lobbed on it. The fireplace had the fire on and John realized that Sherlock must have been disposing loose paper and wrappings into the fire, which would explain the strange smell. 

In the kitchen, a light bulb was flickering as the detective was too bloody lazy to change it with a new one. The fridge door was slightly ajar and half of the cabinet doors were also flung open. Instead of the plates and canned food that used to be stocked in there, half of the space was occupied by strange metal parts that looked like it came from the underside of an automobile. In the middle of the kitchen table, Sherlock usual clutter of laboratory kit was missing and instead, had a  half-made, rickety contraption consisting of loose wire, metal parts, and countless nuts and bolts scattered around it. it looked eerily like an electric chair. 

"What, have you made a job change to engineering?" Lestrade joked and whistled. "Wow, you've made a huge mess of it this time, haven't you?" 

Sherlock didn't answer and instead, flopped onto the couch-the only remaining space with a clear surface- lied down on his back with his feet propped onto the armrest, and reached for the ashtray that was on the low table. He dragged it towards him with his long index finger and with his other hand, pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. John and Lestrade with no seat offered, merely stood and watched as Sherlock lazily lit his cigarette and blew smoke lazily. Only after that did the consulting detective wave aimlessly and say, 

"Please." 

Not sure what kind of invitation it meant, John and Lestrade exchange glances and looked around. John cleared his throat and walked up to the chairs at the window-side table, removed the documents and stuff that was propped on top of the cushion and brought them over to the so that John and Lestrade could sit across Sherlock. 

_We're just like his old clients._

John thought as he cleared his throat and opened his mouth but before he could say anything, Sherlock beat him to it. 

"It helps me think." 

"Gave up with those patches, then?" Lestrade commented, itching for a smoke himself. 

"Boring. So let me guess, You and John visiting me at the same time could only mean two things. One is pure social call, the other a case-related inquiry usually involving my brother, Moriarty, or Mary. Something personal, but if that were the case you would have called or texted me straight away with sign of high anxiety. But you two right now, judging by how you have casually dropped jokes and is more worried about my smoking than anything else, indicates that it's not the latter. So, is it a social call?" Sherlock screwed up his face in mock contemplation. "Er, not really because John and I had a minor falling apart only last week," Lestrade looked at John intriguingly. John ignored is glance. 

"Also, you would've brought some kind of booze or food or perhaps even brought along Mary. So this must be case-related after all and with a personal touch; me." With that ramble, Sherlock drew on the cigarette and blew smoke. He then turned towards John and Lestrade and grinned.   
"The West End case, there's been a casualty now." He declared. 

John had to fight the urge to praise Sherlock's brilliance but at the same time, he was relieved to see that Sherlock was more himself than he has been in his last few visits. 

"Yeah, you're spot on, as usual." Lestrade mumbled and sighed. "I didn't come here to tell you to drop the case."   
  
"Naturally," Sherlock replied bluntly and blew another smoke. 

"But I came here to warn you, Sherlock." Lestrade continued. Sherlock snickered. "The amount of attention this case is getting recently is ridiculous and now with a dead body of a rather high profile musical actor, there will be a lot of scrutiny. I've officially been assigned to this case so I will be able to work closely with you, but you need to promise me that you will not push yourself too far." 

Sherlock glared at Lestrade as he sat up, crushed the cigarette but into the tray and huffed. 

"You can only work on this case under these conditions. One, always keep me informed and involved. Two, you and John will work together. John, I know you are busy with the baby coming through but can you do this for me?" Lestrade turned to John. John blinked, slightly startled by this order but he nodded. 

"Yeah, of course." he then glanced at Sherlock who was staring back at him with cold eyes. 

"Three, no matter how busy you are, you cannot skip your counseling session. If I hear that you missed even one, I will keep you out of this investigation no matter what. Do you understand?" 

"I don't need to be molly-coddled." Sherlock huffed irritably and kneaded his forehead. 

"Promise me," Lestrade pressed. "I can't give you the details of the case unless you promise me." 

"Fine! I promise!" Sherlock exclaimed in resignation and threw his hands in the air. "Now show me the case file." 

Satisfied with his friend's reply, Lestrade slowly pulled out the documents from his bag. 

...

The next day, Lestrade, John, and Sherlock entered Her Majesty's Theater located in Haymarket. The incident happened in the second act, when the lead actor playing the Phantom was performing at an elevated stage. According to witnesses, in the middle of the act, the actor's voice wavered and his posture slumped. Before the Phantom could find anything to hang onto, he plummeted head first from a height of nearly 40 feet and hit his head on the edge of the stage. His body finally landed right at the foot of the front row, traumatizing several audiences that were lucky enough to sit so close to the stage. 

Sherlock glanced up at the 3rd floor gallery and squinted his eyes. He then tread down the center aisle and approached the white chalk marked area where the body was. 

"I need a thorough floor map of this building and measurements." 

"Measurements?" Lestrade asked. 

"Yes, the distance between the stage and the back end, the floor to ceiling height, the number of lights, pulleys, the width of the stage, everything." Sherlock sniffed the air. John frowned. "Strange." The detective muttered. 

"What is?" John asked. 

"I don't smell anything." Sherlock muttered and stalked up and down the aisle like a hound. John and Lestrade could only follow him with their eyes. 

"You think he's okay doing this?" Lestrade asked. 

" _He_ thinks he's okay, which is the problem." John answered and looked back at the theater entrance which was ajar and had a clear view to the lounge area. Beyond the lounge area, John could see a glimpse of the windows where out on the streets were a swarm of press. He shivered. 

For several more minutes, Sherlock scanned the area before making his way to the back stage quarter and finally inspected the gallery seats. Lestrade knew Sherlock long enough not to press at him for the consulting detective will never say anything more than "I have my theories" at this stage. 

Once Sherlock was satisfied with the look-around, he briskly made his way to the front entrance. Lestrade cleared his throat to grab Sherlock's attention and indicated towards the back door but Sherlock merely brushed the suggestion away with a snort and charged through the front door where the mass of press closed in on him the moment he put his foot out the door. 

John let out a sigh and reluctantly followed Sherlock. Lestrade did the same and he charged through to stand in between the press and Sherlock to keep Sherlock from revealing any confidential information. 

"Are you confident you can find the culprit, Mr. Holmes?" 

"Of course." 

"Back off, please! Make way!'

"Are you a fan of musical theater?" 

"Not really." 

"What would you call this case? The Case of the Phantom Killer?" 

"Ha"

"Is it true that you had taken ill recently? How are you feeling now?" 

Lestrade took advantage over Sherlock's momentary hesitation and barked, 

"Alright that's enough, thank you!" 

But John could tell that even if Lestrade did not intrude, Sherlock would have been lost for words and unable to reply. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took forever to update this fic.  
> I was in a massive writers block period while my personal life went over a lot of changes.  
> I am back now and hopefully can write more consistently.


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